


Liber de Nymphis

by geewritessometimes



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Getting Together, Jaskier's family, M/M, Magic, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Pining, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soul Bond, Undine!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geewritessometimes/pseuds/geewritessometimes
Summary: Geralt can't let his feelings get out of control, because Jaskier's human, and Geralt has learned his lesson about emotional attachments to humans. His feelings get out of control anyways. In the process, he learns that maybe his lovely bard isn't as human as he first appeared...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 926
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo





	Liber de Nymphis

**Author's Note:**

> You don't have to google what an undine is if you don't know- it will all be explained!! 
> 
> Also I gave Jaskier three older sisters because his vibe screams "raised by women"

The first clue is so painfully obvious that it’s a disgrace to Geralt’s abilities as a monster hunter that he doesn’t immediately notice it. 

Jaskier  _ loves  _ water, to an obsessive degree. Fool that he is, Geralt chalks it up to simple anal-retentiveness about being clean. The first few nights they camp together on the road after the episode in Posada, Jaskier is adamant that they settle near rivers or streams, and the look on his face when Geralt doesn’t immediately agree is honestly arresting. The possibility of being away from the water looks like it physically pains him, and Geralt is so surprised by it that he agrees right away. If Jaskier really wants a bath that badly, then who is Geralt to deny him? Jaskier truly looks like he’ll suffer cardiac arrest if he doesn’t get his way. Those nights, while Geralt sets about making dinner, Jaskier all but sprints to the river, stripping off his clothes like they’re chains of bondage and diving headlong in with a delighted whoop. Geralt can’t help but watch; he laughs, and swims, and floats, and dives under for extended periods of time ( _ it’s so obvious looking back, no human could hold his breath nearly that long _ ). He looks like he’s in ecstasy. He looks completely at home. When he eventually gets around to bathing, which was the presumed point of all this to begin with, he starts singing, and that’s just as entrancing as everything else he’d been doing. Geralt finds his hands stilling, eyes trained on Jaskier’s milky white skin speckled with water, head going near-foggy with Jaskier’s high voice. 

He attributes it all to Jaskier’s… beauty. He’s hesitant to admit it, but Jaskier is quite easy on the eyes, and though he’d brushed him off when they first met, he’s not  _ blind.  _ He’s not stupid either, and he won’t deny the truth of his own attraction to the bard. He’ll never act on it, but he won’t deny it. Best to just leave it be. It’s been next to no time at all since they met, but he can already feel tendrils of affection curling around his heart, which is… dangerous. Jaskier is slim and fragile and human, and he’ll be dust long before Geralt even starts to slow down. Geralt won’t make the same mistake again he made with Renfri. No attachments. Not even to pretty blue-eyed twinks with high-pitched singing voices and bubbly laughs. So, he just accepts his own attraction for what it is and does his best to reign in its ferocity. And he assumes that his dreamy fascination with Jaskier’s singing and splashing is just that- simple desire.

One particular night stands out among all the rest. It’s late spring and they’ve been travelling together for almost a year now. Right now they’re on the way from the port of Kovir to Skelpol in Redania, following rumors of a basilisk. They’ve been making their way down the coast for a few days now, and Geralt thought that the sea would be sufficient, but Jaskier absolutely refuses to set foot in it. He won’t even dip a toe in. Sure, it’s a bit salty, maybe a little chilly so soon after winter, but it’s still  _ water,  _ so Geralt can’t fathom it. When they finally move a bit farther inland again and find a clear pond in a forest to camp near, Jaskier sighs with an ungodly force of relief. 

“Thank  _ Melitele,  _ that pond is the finest sight I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Greater even than the Countess’ tits. And I don’t even care if she knows it, I’m  _ that  _ happy to see that pond.” he groans, already undressing. It doesn’t take long; his doublet is almost always unbuttoned, and Geralt has learned that he never wears anything under his pants. It’s like wearing clothes is an unbearable burden to him. Foolish Geralt, he assumes it’s because a free spirit like Jaskier would simply prefer to be nude like some forest hippie. Shame has certainly never been his strong suit. 

“I’m beginning to wonder if your obsessive evening bathing is just you trying to get out of cooking duty.” Geralt calls to him. They’re a good deal friendlier with each other than they were when they first met. That is, Geralt’s friendlier. And by friendlier, he means he actually speaks to Jaskier. 

“It’s a favor to us both, then, as I can’t cook for shit.” Jaskier replies. 

He stays in the pond all evening. When dinner is ready, he lays on his stomach with his elbows in the grassy bank to eat, idly splashing his feet in the water behind him. It’s so peculiar, but Jaskier is, to his very core, peculiar, so Geralt simply assumes that’s it. He’s not about to tell Jaskier to get out; Jaskier lounging on the bank half-submerged gives Geralt a spectacular view of the swell of his ass and Geralt is not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“What makes this pond so much better than the sea?” Geralt eventually asks, gesturing with his fork to the water. 

“Uck, is that even a question? Saltwater, Geralt. It’s not good for the skin.” 

It’s not? Geralt’s never had any problems. 

“Don’t frown at me like that. I think, of the two of us, I have the greater repertoire of knowledge with regards to skincare.” Jaskier sniffs haughtily. “Plus, saltwater makes your hair a truly disgusting texture. If I’d taken a dip in the sea yesterday, I’d have been quite literally itching for a freshwater bath all day and all night.”

“Ponds have more scum and vermin.” Now Geralt’s just trying to rile him up. 

“I like to think of it as flavor and companionship.” Jaskier scoops up a piece of stew with his fork and hurls it at Geralt. Geralt dodges easily. 

“Trying to get me in there with you?” he asks, smirking. 

Jaskier blushes. “I won’t begrudge you a bath if you feel you need one.” 

“Keep throwing food at me and I certainly will.” 

Jaskier goes quiet for a moment, and then smirks and throws another forkful at Geralt, quicker than last time. Geralt lets it hit him in the chest. He could have dodged again, but… Jaskier’s ass looks very plush. With an overdone sigh, he begins unlacing his pants as if someone’s got a spear to his back. Jaskier makes an  _ eep  _ sound and blushes even pinker. Geralt smells lust. 

Geralt enjoys his appreciative gaze as he joins Jaskier in the water. He settles with his back to the bank, arms pillowed behind his head, and closes his eyes. Perhaps Jaskier is on to something; the water is very pleasantly cool.

“Tell me that’s not better than a salty, churning sea.” Jaskier says. 

Geralt cracks an eye open and looks at him. He’s still lying on his stomach, watching Geralt over his left shoulder. His waist is submerged, but the hill of his ass remains above the water. His fit legs are bent and hooked together at the ankles, toes pointed like a dancer’s. It’s like a refined oil paint nude. Or perhaps a leaf from a pornographic sketch collection. 

“It’s better.” Geralt concedes. He closes his eyes again, even though he doesn’t want to. But he better, before he does something he regrets. 

“Mm. I’m always right.” 

They eventually get out well after sundown and put their clothes back on. Jaskier does it very reluctantly. He’s pulling on his pants near Geralt where he’s seated in front of the fire when Geralt notices that his toes haven’t gone pruney in the slightest, even after being submerged for at least five hours. Not in the  _ slightest.  _

~

Jaskier’s voice should be the second clue. He’s got a beautiful voice, that much is obvious, but it’s the effect it has on people that really seals the deal. With the exception of Posada, he’s generally popular wherever they go, and can quite easily wring at least a hundred coins from any audience he chooses to entertain. Geralt is only mildly surprised; Jaskier’s songs aren’t always to his taste, but he’s probably the most ignorant person in the world when it comes to pop culture. Everyone else loves them, so that’s that. 

It’s especially striking one night in a tavern in Cidaris. They’re in the town of Ikoyenia so Geralt can deal with a kelpie problem for the mayor, despite Jaskier’s protests. He hadn’t wanted to come. Something about an old rival employed at the royal court of Cidaris, a Valdo something-or-other. They’re not even anywhere near the capital, but apparently in Jaskier’s mind, the entire kingdom is tainted by the man’s very presence. They’re in the room they’ve booked at the local inn, Geralt checking over his equipment and Jaskier tuning his lute, when Jaskier speaks. 

“I’m going to make a special effort tonight.” 

“Mm.” Geralt can sense that Jaskier’s about to rant. 

“That tasteless blight upon the musical world may think he’s got the people of Cidaris under lock and key, but I shall show them the error of their ways. Tonight, I shall rescue them from artistic oblivion. No longer shall they be subjected to the horror of emotionless waltzes, bored to death by the monotony and limp as old cucumbers. Invigoration is to be had in this tavern tonight! The passion will be glorious! There will be a baby boom!” 

Jaskier sounds vaguely like a divinely-anointed emperor making ready for war. Geralt is grinning. 

“Do you know that he had the gall once to tell me  _ my  _ music was vapid? Ha! If you could only hear him perform, Geralt. Oh, you’d be asleep in a matter of minutes. Never has there been music so sexless. So dull. It makes one impotent to hear it. He thinks it’s high art, to make music excessively technically complex and devoid of relatability. God forbid the masses sully his songs by gaining anything valuable from them. God forbid anyone have any fun.” 

“I’m sure you’ll set things straight.” Geralt says placatingly. Jaskier is absolutely feral when he gets a certain bit between his teeth. 

“Quite right. Will you be coming to watch my triumph over apathy?” 

Geralt shrugs. He doesn’t have anything to do until morning. “Sure.” 

Never let it be said that Jaskier isn’t a determined bastard when he wants to be. He gets up on a table at the nearby tavern and commences one of his finest performances to date, as far as Geralt can judge. He starts with a song Geralt’s actually never heard before, a hypnotizing hymn about a rabbit and a turquoise ring, and it makes Geralt’s head positively swim. The plucks of the lute are background noise against Jaskier’s lilting voice, scaling octaves effortlessly, high and clear like a bell, flavored with occasional rasps of depth that seem to come from his very soul. Every single person in the entire tavern is entranced by the end of it, all silent and watching with wide, glassy eyes. 

Jaskier then proceeds to take them all from sleepy mysticism to wild exuberance. His successive songs get progressively more and more upbeat and cheerful, until everyone is pounding on their tables in time with the beat, laughing and hooting. Geralt belatedly realizes that he hasn’t taken his eyes off Jaskier for a single second the entire time, and then realizes even  _ more  _ belatedly that he’s been thumping his own tabletop along with everyone else. 

But Jaskier is just…. mythical. His cheeks are flushed pink with warmth and excitement. He’s moving as much as he can within the limited space of his table-stage, fluid like water, almost dancing. He orchestrates the crowd like a maestro, controlling their very souls with his voice. At the end of an especially uplifting song, Geralt even notices a few people crying, wide smiles plastered on their faces. Normally that might seem suspicious to him, but in truth, he’s just as much under Jaskier’s spell as they are. Jaskier’s singing makes him feel  _ so good.  _

When Jaskier eventually finishes, after a popular song about a werewolf and his human lover that had the whole tavern singing along, he gets down from his table to raucous applause. He makes his way through the adoring crowds to the corner where Geralt is nestled, positively glowing. Geralt finds himself struggling to keep his own head above water. 

“Well done.” he manages to choke out. He wants desperately to seize hold of Jaskier and drag him off to some secluded location and have his way with him. 

“I think so! I believe the pot has been sufficiently stirred.” With a saucy grin, he slides onto the bench next to Geralt. Geralt burns with his presence. Their thighs are touching. 

“Jaskier.” He doesn’t even know what he wants to say. 

“Hm?” Jaskier sets his lute down on the table nonchalantly, utterly oblivious to Geralt’s inner turmoil. He pierces Geralt with an inquisitive gaze, and his blue, blue, blue eyes are just too much. Geralt is only a man. 

He grabs the front of Jaskier’s chemise and crushes their lips together, to  _ fucking hell  _ with that  _ no attachments  _ bullshit. Jaskier squeaks in surprise, but as always, he’s quick to catch on, and right away his hands are on either side of Geralt’s face. Geralt’s hands relocate to his trim waist, and the feel of it, its narrowness, sets him on fire. He’s instantly hard. He’s mind-bogglingly horny. 

As if he can sense it, one of Jaskier’s hands slides down Geralt’s front and under the table, where he grinds his palm against Geralt’s straining cock. Geralt rumbles deep in his chest. 

“This is the most favorable performance review you’ve ever given me, witcher.” Jaskier murmurs against his lips. He’s a vixen, a siren, an incubus. Geralt wants him so badly. 

Geralt takes him back to their room at the inn and fucks him absolutely senseless. 

~

The third clue, even in light of the first two, doesn’t spark any kind of clarity either. 

Geralt seems to be utterly powerless against the force of nature that is Jaskier. He’s failing miserably at his vow to keep his distance. They’ve started sleeping together and stopped leaving each other for periods of time to go do their own thing. It used to be all Geralt wished for; now he can’t stomach the thought. They spend all their time together and he never tires of it. He always knew somewhere deep down that he was a possessive man; he doesn’t have much, but what he does have he guards with utmost vigilance. Jaskier is no exception. The bar patrons who oogle him during performances make something hard and angry curl in Geralt’s stomach, and it takes all his willpower to restrain himself from taking every single one of them out into the street and putting them in their place. 

He actually did get into a fight once: he and Jaskier had been traveling temporarily in the company of a band of mercenaries in Nazair because they knew how to traverse a certain stretch of occupied territory without being detected by Nilfgaard. They’d had no choice, and anyways, the mercenaries’ terms weren’t terrible- they were willing to take them both on as long as Jaskier entertained them in the evening and Geralt helped hunt for food along the way. Things went sour, though, when one of the men of the company took a liking to Jaskier. Geralt had noticed him eyeing Jaskier up when the bard sang to them around the campfire, but assumed that the man wouldn’t be fool enough to try and encroach on the territory of a witcher. He’d underestimated human stupidity. One morning, as Geralt was packing up their bedroll and Jaskier was away at the river washing up, he was suddenly struck with the acrid smell of fear, mingled in Jaskier’s normal scent of white lilies. He was on his feet instantly, and at the river in seconds. What he saw set his blood on fire: that man, pinning Jaskier against a tree and making every attempt to kiss him and grope him, despite Jaskier’s vehement protests. Geralt doesn’t exactly remember what happened next. When he regained some of his sanity and came to, he realized he was crushing the man’s throat against the tree with his forearm and turning his face a fascinating shade of purple. The rest of the mercenaries were gathered all around, shouting, and Jaskier was plastered to Geralt’s back, pleading with him not to kill the man. It was Jaskier’s soothing voice and not the angry threats of the company that convinced Geralt to remove his arm and let the fool go. He collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Needless to say, no one made any attempt on Jaskier for the rest of the journey. 

However, what is especially peculiar is that Geralt’s urge to exclusivity applies not only to Jaskier but to himself as well. He has never been so disgusted by the thought of putting his hands on someone else. The idea of taking a lover other than Jaskier makes him physically ill, and it’s only when an adventurous countess propositions him that he realizes it. 

They’re lodging at the court of the earl of Lyria while Geralt deals with a bruxa problem for him, and being treated to extravagant dinner parties the likes of which Geralt has never seen. It’s at one of these parties that the earl’s bored wife makes a pass. 

“How’s the life of luxury treating you, then?” she asks with a smile, sidling up to Geralt’s side with a glass of champagne in one hand. Geralt can already smell lust. It turns his stomach. 

“Prefer the open road.” he manages to grunt. 

She laughs. “Mm, well, you certainly look hardy enough for it. I’m sure you’re just itching to leave this place in your dust. But, there are certain comforts to be found here that are in short supply on empty mountain passes…” 

She gives him a  _ look,  _ and adjusts her posture to show off her breasts. 

Geralt is suddenly so ill he genuinely thinks he might vomit. He huffs something in reply and immediately rushes out of the banquet hall and into a darkened corridor. He has to brace his hand on the wall and hunch over as he dry-heaves. He’s so shocked by the force of his own reaction to the countess that he doesn’t even hear the approaching footsteps until someone’s laying a hand on his bent back. 

“Geralt, what on earth’s the matter?!” It’s Jaskier. He’d been off rubbing elbows with some other noblemen, but evidently saw Geralt’s hasty retreat. 

Geralt takes a few deep breaths before straightening up. “Nothing.” 

“Well, it doesn’t look like nothing! Cersei’s tits, I’ve never seen you gag like that!” Jaskier sounds genuinely worried. 

“Hm. Something about the countess. Really repulsive.” 

“What, did she do something? Say something? Does she stink? I can’t imagine that’s the case, she looks like she employs a fleet of at least fifty to take care of her hair alone. She’s probably got someone on staff exclusively to powder her underarms every five minutes.” 

“She just… propositioned me. It made me sick.” Geralt finds himself winding his arms around Jaskier and pulling him against his chest, nuzzling into his hair. Smells so good. Calms the nausea roiling around in his gut. 

Jaskier goes very, very still in his arms and his scent colors with something anxious and excited and indescribable. Geralt frowns and pulls back to inspect him. Jaskier’s eyes are very wide. 

“Ah… She, uh… She wanted to sleep with you?” Jaskier asks tentatively. 

Geralt’s stomach contracts with another barely-repressed gag. Jaskier sees it and his eyes widen even further. His nostrils flare. He knows something. And he’s not telling Geralt. Geralt frowns some more. 

“Geralt. I, uh. I hadn’t the courage to tell you before, but…” Jaskier places his hands on either side of Geralt’s face and kisses him very gently. “I’m afraid I’m frightfully in love with you, my dear.”

In a way, Geralt already knew. They both knew. He holds Jaskier and kisses him and forgets all about his extremely unusual reaction to the countess. He forgets about his reservations for once, too. 

“And I love you.” he murmurs against Jaskier’s lips when they part. 

~

Geralt finally puts the pieces together in Lettenhove. 

They’ve decided to winter there together instead of separately this year, as Jaskier received an invitation from his sisters and Geralt is… coming with? He doesn’t know how he got roped into this. He tells himself that it will be a good reprieve to live off of someone else’s coin for a while, but truth be told, he’s never liked being a freeloader. He just can’t stand the thought of spending another winter apart. 

They’re currently in a frosty wheat field on the edge of Gustfields, under the weak December sun, taking a brief rest. They’ve been setting a brisk pace in order to beat the impending snow, and Jaskier is warm enough that he’s taken off his doublet. He’s currently risking frostbite picking some late-season raspberries in some bushes nearby. Geralt had been sitting quietly by himself near Roach, but felt an intense urge to be near Jaskier, which he eventually succumbed to. He’s standing beside him now, doing absolutely fuck all. He might be scenting him. Jaskier smells like lilies and pure joy.

“Alright, hold out your hand.” Jaskier says, turning to him. Geralt can see his firm nipples poking against the light, silky material of his chemise. He  _ wants _ . 

“Do you want me to close my eyes too?” Geralt jokes, offering Jaskier his palm. 

Jaskier laughs. It’s like windchimes in a cool breeze. He drops some raspberries into his palm, which Geralt tosses back immediately. Jaskier eats in a slower, more civilized fashion. He studies Geralt for a moment, and then smirks. 

“You know, I’m not sure how much privacy my family will give us. They tend to be quite nosy and demanding.”

Geralt knows what he’s getting at. Without another word, he unbuckles his cloak and spreads it out on the frosty ground beside the bushes so that they can enjoy some wind cover. Jaskier lays down and spreads his legs, and Geralt gets in between them, and they warm each other up. 

They reach the Pankratz manor in Lettenhove early the next morning. The eldest sister, Peregrinetta, is waiting outside to greet them when they arrive. She looks so much like Jaskier- round cornflower blue eyes and soft brown hair, though she’s got a few wrinkles and looks a bit more stern and weathered. She eyes Geralt with some skepticism, but smiles for Jaskier, drawing him into a tight hug. A subtle scenting of the air tells Geralt that she’s not afraid of him, just… Skeptical. When she’s done hugging her brother, Geralt offers her a polite bow of his head. 

“Thank you for letting Jaskier bring me along.” he says as kindly as he can manage. 

Peregrinetta raises an eyebrow, but seems a bit more relaxed. “It’s no problem at all. Come, I’ll show you in.” 

Jaskier offers Peregrinetta his arm, already chattering a mile a minute about all their adventures, interspersed with questions about the goings-on in Gustfields. She tolerates his babbling with an effortless smile, like she’s been doing it all her life, and Geralt is reminded that Jaskier is the youngest of all his siblings. What a handful he must have been. 

Peregrinetta shows them their room (they’re sharing, which means Jaskier’s family knows the nature of their relationship somehow), and then takes them to the banquet hall to meet Jaskier’s other two sisters and his parents. His father is nothing much to look at, just your typical aging nobleman, but his mother- she’s clearly the beauty of the marriage, and has passed her face and coloring on to all four of her children. She greets Geralt with a very warm smile and a handshake, whereas the Earl of Lettenhove just gives him a stern nod. It goes much the same way with Jaskier- his mother smothers him in hugs and kisses, and his father just offers a handshake. The other two sisters are Marza and Frugella, and they’ve also got the cornflower blue eyes and brown hair. Marza, the second eldest, is very reserved, but Frugella lights up in sheer delight when she sees her brother. 

“ _ Julian! _ ” she cries, running over to him and leaping into his arms. “I’ve missed you so much! Tell me everything! You know I’ve heard all of your songs in all the taverns I’ve been to, even this far north? Everyone’s singing them! You’re famous!  _ Oh,  _ and I heard you fought a band of  _ elves?  _ You simply  _ must  _ tell me! Oh, come, come, I have something I want to show you! I’ve started a flower garden in the backyard! Come on, you can tell me your stories there!” 

Geralt… can see where he gets it from. He watches as they rush off together out a set of grand white double doors, chattering excitedly, and now he’s left alone with three people who appear to be just as frigid and introverted as he is, plus his lover’s mom. They all begin chattering amongst each other, and Geralt takes his cue. With a polite nod to Peregrinetta, he leaves.

He wanders around the manor for a while, just drinking it in. The furnishings and finishes are clearly very expensive, but the house isn’t as sprawlingly huge as some of the other noble estates he’s been in. The first level is just the banquet hall, kitchens, dining rooms, and parlors, and the second level is all bedrooms, so he goes up to the third and final level. Up there, there’s smaller rooms with random trinkets in them, hidden nooks and crannies, strangely sloped ceilings. He can easily imagine a young Jaskier playing hide-and-seek up here. 

At the end of the hall leading away from the staircase, Geralt enters through a set of double doors to find a dusty old library of all things. It’s in quite a state of disarray, and it looks as if no one has set foot inside for years. A single stained-glass window at the far side of the room allows for a little tinted light, and by it, Geralt peruses. He’s more of a hands-on learner than a book learner, but he’s read his fair share in the span of his long life, and he recognizes some of the titles he sees lining the shelves against the walls. He does a loop, and then comes to the big table in the center of the room. It’s piled high with books and papers and maps, all covered in a layer of dust. On a whim, he picks up the first thing his eyes settle on, a small leather-bound book with no title or labels. He flips it open, loosing a cloud of dust as he does so. 

_ To my dear friend and colleague James Pankratz, Earl of Lettenhove: At your behest and encouragement, I have laboured long and hard on this little book whenever time has been available to me. I can only hope that my humble efforts will be of use to you in some form or fashion, will grant you some little clarity regarding your dear son, the Viscount of Lettenhove. My research in this field is extensive, and it is my greatest hope that it will be valuable to you. I prayed that Melitele guide my pen, so that everything in this book may be true and clear to all who read it. What follows will be a concise and unprecedented account of the nature, disposition, powers, and peculiarities of undines- reader, read well!  _

Geralt’s eyes widen and he frowns. Something uneasy is settling in his gut, the swell of anticipation when one knows that something monumental is about to happen. He knows what an undine is. But he reads on. 

_ Overview _ _ : Undines are a category of elemental water beings belonging to the same family as mermaids and sirens. In simple language, they are water nymphs. They are usually female, although male undine are not unheard of. These fantastically gorgeous creatures are typically found in small forest pools or easygoing freshwater rivers, and they especially enjoy waterfalls. Their beautiful singing voices can sometimes be heard emanating from the water. Although they resemble humans in form when they cloak themselves in glamour, they lack a human soul. In order to achieve mortality, an undine must acquire a soul by marrying a human. Such a union is not without risk for the human partner, for if he is unfaithful, then he is fated to die.  _

Geralt isn’t ashamed to say his jaw drops. Everything clicks into place, and he feels like a complete idiot. He can’t believe he never noticed it all this time. 

Jaskier is an undine. 

_ Undine cannot live out of water for extended periods of time. Research is inconclusive regarding the maximum duration of time an undine may spend out of water, but death is certain if it is too long. Thankfully, a quick dip in a freshwater pool once a day is usually sufficient to sustain them if they intend to live on land. Saltwater is utterly unacceptable, as it dries out undine skin and can even cause suffocation and death.  _

All those times Jaskier pleaded with Geralt to let them camp near streams and ponds. His refusal to swim in the sea. Geralt is the biggest knucklehead to ever live. He flips through the pages, quickly scanning for anything else that might be relevant. 

_ An undine’s voice is its power, its magic. Undine cannot seduce and entrance to the degree that sirens are able, but if they put especial focus into their singing, they can induce a pleasant, light trance in their audience. It is not effective enough to reduce humans to slaves, but it will produce a whimsical, dreamy, romantic sensation.  _

That night in Ikoyenia. Jaskier’s determination. Geralt’s inability to restrain himself. 

_ Humans ought to be very wary of taking undine as lovers, and undine ought to be very restrained with their emotions. When an undine falls in love, and that love is reciprocated, there will manifest a magical bond between themselves and their beloved which, if violated, will wither and die and take the beloved with it. If a human lover is tempted to infidelity, the bond will remind them of their commitment by producing a range of sensations: nausea, vomiting, headache, dizziness, and muscle aches are the most common.  _

The night in Lyria, when the countess propositioned him. Jaskier  _ did  _ know what was happening. That’s why he confessed his love. He’d known that it was too late to back out, a bond had already been forged. That Geralt was in love. 

_ The issue of soul acquisition is tricky. It’s been well-established that undine are immortal, and become mortal when forging a love bond with a human, which automatically makes them sharers in that mortal human soul. What is less certain is the outcome of a love bond between an undine and another immortal being with a soul. Principle dictates that such a bond would make the undine a partaker in that immortal soul, whereby they would gain a soul and also keep their immortality. However, this has never been proven.  _

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. 

He’s immortal. And he apparently has a love bond with Jaskier. 

_ Jaskier is immortal.  _

All of Geralt’s buried fears and reservations melt away like snow in spring. He’d never wanted to start anything with Jaskier to begin with because he saw the potential for attachment, and then subsequent heartbreak when the sands of time eventually ran out for the bard. He’d wanted to spare himself the pain. But now… 

He drops the book back on the table and rushes out of the room. 

  
  


Geralt waits all afternoon for Jaskier to return to their room. He’s so filled with anticipation that half of him wants to just go out and hunt Jaskier down, but he forces himself to be patient. It does eventually pay off around five o’clock, when the door to their room opens and in comes Jaskier, beaming and breathless. Geralt has never been so eager to speak, but as always, Jaskier beats him to it.

“I’ve just had the  _ best  _ afternoon. Frugella and I went into the village and I got to catch up with all of my childhood friends, and we had Lettenhoven wine, which I’ve missed  _ so much,  _ you have no idea-” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, grasping him by the biceps. Something about his tone must convey his urgency, because Jaskier ceases speaking immediately. 

“What? What’s wrong?” he asks, nervous now. 

Geralt kisses him softly. He knows now that he has all the time in the world do it as slow as he wants. Jaskier melts against him, arms looping around Geralt’s neck like a fainting damsel. 

“You know, if you’d ever told me you weren’t human, I could have saved myself a lot of emotional turmoil.” Geralt murmurs against his plush lips. 

Jaskier recoils in shock, eyes wide as saucers. 

“W-What?” 

“Don’t know why I had to find out the truth from a dusty old library book and not from you.” Geralt continues. He rubs Jaskier’s back soothingly as he speaks, to show him that he’s not truly upset. 

Jaskier is thunderously silent, just gaping at Geralt like a fish. Geralt waits patiently. Eventually the bard speaks. 

“I, uh. Well, I was planning on telling you eventually. I really was. It’s just that. Well. At first, I never intended to let you know, because I’ve worked very hard to establish this facade of humanness, and I hardly knew you yet! And then I sort of started falling in love with you before I even knew what was happening, and… I’m sorry about that, by the way- I was so good at  _ not  _ falling in love with anyone for so long and then you came along and before I knew it, it was too late. And then we became lovers in Cidaris, and it  _ really  _ was too late. I hoped that, because you didn’t feel the same way about me, a love bond wouldn’t happen, but then that countess propositioned you, and you started gagging, and I knew right away that you were in love with me too and, again, it was too late. And suddenly  _ years  _ had gone by, and all that time I’d kept this secret from you, and it got harder and harder to say it because so much time had passed…” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt stops his rambling. “Do you realize what this means.” 

“What? What does it mean? Are you mad at me? Are we breaking up? That might not be wise, because you’ll never be able to sleep with anyone else ever again I’m afraid,  _ frightfully  _ sorry about that, I can’t control it-”

“ _ Jaskier.  _ It means you’re immortal. I’m not human, and I’m not mortal. You’re bonded to me for as long as I live. And you have a soul, for whatever that’s worth.” 

“Er. Yes. I know. Are you… okay with all that?”

Geralt huffs. “You must be joking.” He kisses Jaskier heatedly, so that there’s no room for doubt. 

They pull apart after a while, and Geralt tilts his head thoughtfully and rubs at Jaskier’s shoulders and chest. 

“You chose to look like this.” 

“Yes. My mother found me in a pool in the forest just a few minutes’ ride from here when I was just a spriteling and my sisters were toddlers. I wasn’t sure how to design my human form, so I just modeled it after her.” 

“She just… took you? Seems ill-advised.” Geralt frowns. 

“Oh, no, I didn’t mind at all. She’d always wanted a son, see, and obviously hadn’t had much luck with that. I was very happy to be her son.” 

Geralt admires him some more. He’d chosen well. 

“Geralt… You’ve never. That is to say. You’ve never hunted an undine before, have you?” Jaskier asks nervously. 

Geralt balks. He knows what Jaskier’s trying to ask. It’s horrifying that the thought would even occur to him. He hugs Jaskier tight and begins kissing his neck. 

“No. Never.” More kisses, interspersed with a bite. “Don’t even think that.” 

“Oh good. Good, good, good. I wasn’t  _ really  _ worried, but this is quite a big secret to keep, and I didn’t know if you had some moral principle to never sleep with your victims.” 

“You are not my  _ victim. _ ” 

Jaskier pulls Geralt away from his throat by the hair and smirks. “No, you’re right. I rather think you’re  _ mine. _ ”

Geralt  _ hmms  _ and kisses him again. Jaskier’s tongue is sliding against his right away, hot and filthy. Geralt’s hands migrate down his back to grab two handfuls of that sweet ass he’s always been weak for, kneading and pulling the cheeks apart. Jaskier breaks away with a wet gasp. 

“ _ Beloved,  _ I don’t care that my family is just below, I want you to take me and make me scream.” 

“Ah, but what will your mother think?” Geralt says with a teasing grin. 

“Well then, if you’re so concerned, find a way to keep me quiet.” 

He’s not, really. 

Geralt gets them both naked and onto the bed in record time. He pins Jaskier down on his back and blankets him with his body, sucking and biting on his neck and letting his hands roam  _ everywhere.  _ Jaskier is  _ his.  _ Forever. He need never fear losing him to old age. He need not fear the emotional ties they’ve forged. The sense of security alone makes something wild seize up in his chest, and he squeezes Jaskier’s thighs tighter than is probably comfortable. Jaskier wails, legs spreading and hips jerking up. Even if Geralt were a greater idiot than he already is, such body language couldn’t be misinterpreted. 

“You want it? Want me to fuck you senseless, you fucking water vixen?” he growls, hardly knowing where the words come from. 

“ _ God  _ yes, fuck me, take what’s yours-” Jaskier cries. 

Geralt is gone and back with the oil in a fraction of a second, and then he’s shoving two fingers into Jaskier. Jaskier grabs the back of his thighs and holds himself open, head thrown back and mouth open in ecstasy. It’s blazingly hot, but also intimately familiar. Jaskier’s holding himself open for him because he trusts Geralt, because he belongs to Geralt. It sets Geralt on fire. He adds a third and starts fingering Jaskier with  _ purpose _ , hard enough to jostle his whole body. Jaskier is moaning quite loudly now. 

“Now, Geralt, now!” 

His wish is Geralt’s command. Geralt is inside him before he can even blink, and Jaskier yelps as the first aggressive thrust splits him open. 

“ _ Fuck,  _ never get any smaller do you, you great, lumbering-” 

Geralt thrusts again, and the breath punches out of Jaskier’s lungs. He starts a brutal pace; they enjoy slow, gentle love-making too, but tonight is not the night for it. Geralt’s so impassioned by the revelation of Jaskier’s true nature that he can barely restrain himself. He gets to keep a love he never thought he could have. 

Accordingly, he gives Jaskier a proper back blow-out. Jaskier’s practically screaming, holding his own ankles as Geralt pins his thighs back and keeps them spread. There’s a raunchy squelching sound every time Geralt thrusts, coupled with the slamming of the headboard into the wall. Geralt’s been around the block once or twice, but it’s so shameless that it makes his cock throb. 

“ _ Fuck,  _ fuck, fuck, I’m close.” Jaskier gasps. It hasn’t even been five minutes. 

“Come for me.” Geralt growls. The man hasn’t even touched himself. Geralt’s pride swells. 

With a loud, exuberant, unselfconscious moan, Jaskier comes. The sound of it, the smell of it, the way he clenches tight like a vice- Geralt is finished. The groan that escapes him sounds something like boulders being ground together as he comes inside, holding Jaskier’s hips down the whole way through. 

They gasp for breath in unison for quite a while, slowly falling out of the position they’d finished in. Jaskier releases his grip on his own ankles and Geralt lets go of the backs of his thighs. His legs fall loosely open. Geralt waits for his heart rate to come down a bit, and then he pulls out and tips over onto his side next to Jaskier. For his part, Jaskier is totally blissed out, eyes closed, dopey smile. 

“Glad I hitched my wagon to a fuck like you.” he babbles, grinning. 

“Let’s just hope I continue to satisfy you for the rest of eternity.” Geralt means it to be equally light-hearted, but to his dismay, a note of insecurity bleeds through. Jaskier never misses anything, and he doesn’t miss this either. He turns to look at Geralt earnestly. 

“My darling witcher. My gorgeous idiot. You need not fear inadequacy in the face of my past dalliances. I do not and will never desire anyone else.” He touches Geralt’s cheek. “Honestly, my willingness to follow you even into rotten swamps and the jaws of monsters should be testament enough to my devotion.” 

Geralt chuckles. “I just don’t wish to bore you.” 

“I’ve had approximately 513 near-death experiences since I started traveling with you. Boredom is the very last thing that will ever threaten our union, I promise you.” Jaskier replies dryly. 

“Hm.” 

Geralt kisses him again. Slow, because he can. 


End file.
